Page 14 of The Book of Lost Hours

Her throat was impossibly dry. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I can’t figure out where I am and…”

“That is no good.” He held out a hand to help her up. “Come with me. I will show you the way.”

Amelia took his hand, conscious of how hers was trembling, and let him pull her to her feet.

He motioned for her to follow him, and she began assessing him from behind.

He had dark brown hair that fell in waves, and he wore an ill-fitting wool coat that hung loosely on his frame.

He walked with purpose, taking long, quick strides, twisting and turning through the maze of shelves.

Soon they found themselves standing in the center of it all.

A path that cut through the rows of shelves. The boy stopped walking and pointed up.

“Look there,” he said. “That will help you to breathe.”

Amelia tilted her head. Instead of breathing easier, she almost stopped breathing altogether.

Swirling patterns of color and light flecked with gold were laid against a backdrop of endless sky.

Tiny beams of light shot across the breadth of it from time to time like meteors, disappearing over the edge.

The longer she looked at it, the more her blood settled, nerves unwinding.

“Better?” the young man asked. He was leaning back against one of the shelves with his hands in his pockets. In this stance, he looked younger. The sharpness in his features came more from hunger than from age.

“Better. Thank you.”

He nodded. “It was the same for me.”

“How do you find your way around this place?”

“Practice. It is not so hard as you think.” He gestured to the book in her hands. She had all but forgotten it. “You are here to store the memories then?”

“Oh. No, actually I… do you know how I might find the memories of a specific person?” she asked.

The young man leaned to the side, propping himself against one of the shelves. “Which person?” he asked.

Amelia nearly told him but then reconsidered, eyeing him a bit more closely.

Maybe telling this accented stranger what she was here for was a bad idea.

After all, she didn’t know where he was from.

The watch he wore was a Glashütte, like hers, but that didn’t mean anything.

She thought of the language he had been speaking before, wishing she’d paid more attention to it.

What if he was one of the rebels Moira had mentioned?

The very notion of it made her shy away from him.

“Never mind,” she said, clutching the library book a bit more tightly.

“Are you sure? It is hard to find things in here. I can—”

“I can find it,” Amelia said, cutting him off. “Th-thank you for your help.”

He gave her a strange look and smiled at her.

“You are welcome.” He pointed back in the direction from which they had come.

“The American section is that way. Whoever you are looking for will be over there.” He nodded at the book in her hands.

“If they haven’t already been assimilated, you can store their memories in that. ”

“Assimilated?” Amelia asked in spite of her apprehension.

He chuckled at her. “They really did not tell you anything, did they? The memories appear first as ghosts until they’ve been stored.”

“Oh… then how do I… you know?”

“Like this.” He took her nonwatch wrist and opened the book, laying her hand on the pages, palm flat, like a politician taking a solemn oath. “And then they, uhh…” He shifted awkwardly and reached out his other hand.

Amelia jumped as he laid his palm on her cheek, warm against her clammy skin. A second ticked by and he dropped his hand abruptly.

“And that’s it,” he said, casting his eyes downward in embarrassment.

“That’s it?”

“Well, there are the memories, of course. They play in your head like a motion picture but… mostly that’s it.” He cleared his throat. “Good luck. I hope you find what you are looking for,” he said.

Amelia nodded as he turned to go, feeling her throat constrict as the silence closed in on her once more.

She started back in the direction he had indicated, taking slow, careful steps as she went.

Something moved in the corner of her eye, and she spun around, half expecting a Russian soldier to appear.

Instead, what she saw scarcely looked real.

A girl dressed in a brown dress and head covering, her body smoky and transparent.

Like a ghost moving between the shelves.

The thought of seeing Uncle Ernest like that made Amelia’s eyes sting and for the first time, she realized that finding his memories would mean having to see the moment he had died firsthand.

She wasn’t ready for that, didn’t know if she’d ever be ready for that.

Her eyes scanned the shelves filled with books in front of her, wondering if maybe she could find the book Moira wanted without having to look at her uncle’s memories.

How had she described it again? Dark blue leather with some kind of shape on the front.

Why hadn’t she paid more attention? She began to walk aimlessly down the rows, staring at the books.

Even if she did remember the description, finding a specific book in a place filled to the brim with them felt like an impossible task.

In her periphery, more of the ghostly figures appeared but she ignored them, so focused on finding her way that she almost walked right through one.

“Are you looking for someone?” the specter asked, his bright shadow dragging through the air.

Amelia jumped, whirling around to face the figure. He wore a gray robe made of simple fabric that tied at the waist. He was dressed like a monk, Amelia thought. Or maybe just someone very poor from a very long time ago.

“Sorry?” she asked.

“You’re a timekeeper?”

“Oh, um. I suppose.”

“A little young, aren’t you?”

Amelia shifted awkwardly, wondering if he wanted her to assimilate his memories. “Do you… want me to…”

The memory waved his hand. “No, no. I’m afraid I have little left to assimilate. Any attempts would be a waste of both of our time.”

Amelia frowned. If he had been assimilated, why was he still here?

“Your name is Amelia,” the man said before she could ask.

“How do you know that?”

“I knew the timekeeper who wore that watch before you.”

“You knew my uncle?”

“I do. Or at least I did.” He leaned forward conspiratorially as though sharing some kind of secret. “I don’t normally speak to timekeepers. He was an exception.”

“But you’re talking to me.”

“I had to. You almost walked right through me.”

“Sorry,” Amelia said sheepishly.

“Quite all right. I wouldn’t exactly feel it, would I?”

“I guess not.” Amelia considered him for a moment. Perhaps he knew where to look. “I’m looking for a book. A blue one with some sort of engraving on the cover. A plant or… maybe a flower.”

The figure stared at her, unblinking.

“Would you happen to know where it is?” Amelia prompted.

“Not presently.”

“Oh. Well. Okay then. Thanks anyway.” She started to turn away.

“You’re going the wrong way,” the memory said, stopping her short.

“I thought you said you didn’t know where it is.”

“Oh, I don’t. But that’s the wrong way.”

“O… kay.”

The memory stepped to the side and pointed the other direction. “That way. You’ll want to go that way.”

Amelia frowned at him. “And how do I know you’re not leading me in the wrong direction?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Sure, but how do I know that? You could be lying.”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I see your point.” He pondered this for a minute, head tilted. “I am dead, you know.”

“So?”

“So what would I have to gain by misleading you?”

“I guess that’s… fair.” Amelia still didn’t move.

“You can go the other way if you like, it doesn’t matter to me. It’s just the wrong way.”

Amelia frowned at him. She took a few steps in the direction he had pointed, glancing at him over her shoulder. He didn’t leave right away. He was still watching her, smiling to himself in a sad sort of way.

“Was there something else you needed?” she asked.

“Oh, no. Not yet.”

“Yet?”

“Later. We’ll talk later.”

“All right then,” Amelia said.

She began walking again, shaking her head at the strangeness.

Perhaps all specters were like that to some extent.

She continued on, feeling less anxious now that she had somewhere to go, even if she wasn’t exactly sure it was the right way.

It wasn’t until she’d walked for what felt like hours that she began to wonder if maybe the memory was messing with her.

After all, there was nothing here but more books.

None of them were blue, and in fact most of them didn’t even have proper covers at all, but rather were wrapped up in old pieces of animal hide, indicating that they must be very, very old.

She let out a sigh of frustration and looked down at her watch, alarmed to find that nearly three hours had passed since she’d entered the time space.

Surely Moira wouldn’t be upset if she left now?

Taking one last look at the books on the shelves, she reached for the watch and turned the crown. A door appeared, materializing out of the shadows. Amelia slipped between the silent shelves toward it, leaving the memories behind with the stars.

The sudden rush of sounds all around her shook her to her very core.

She was back beside the window, the cool breeze of the autumn day trickling in behind her.

Her pulse quickened, then slowed again. Her body did not feel like her own.

The whole world seemed to hum around her.

It took her several moments to reorient herself.

She looked for Moira, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Had she gone? Amelia peered down several shelves, expecting her to materialize like the memory of one of the dead. But she didn’t.

Amelia returned to the table where she’d been working and found a stack of three books and a manila folder waiting for her there. A note sat on top of the file.

Amelia,

Profiles on Russian timekeepers for you to take a look at. Particularly the first one. Dinner is at seven.

- M.

P.S. The books are poetry collections by female poets. You really ought to diversify your reading.

Amelia made a face at the note. She looked at the books first. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Emma Lazarus. Edna St. Vincent Millay. Tucking the books under her arm to take home, she turned her attention to the folder and flipped it open.

The first photo was of a gaunt, sharp-faced boy, with dark brown hair that fell in waves.

Anton Stepanov, seventeen years old. Timekeeper. Russian agent. Murderer.